


You Could Never Make Your Mind

by catty_the_spy



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Consent Issues, F/M, Infidelity, goa'uld and their bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catty_the_spy/pseuds/catty_the_spy
Summary: Daniel, Amaunet, and the monkey on her back.





	You Could Never Make Your Mind

They say nothing of the host survives. Daniel can’t believe it.

Why else would they be here, as Amaunet slides her hands down his chest, slides his pants off his hips, wraps her hand around his shaft and slides the head into her mouth. (Not even Apophis got that privilege.) Yet here they are, and surely she has somewhere else to be, but she’s been spending a lot of her nights with him.

The jaffa share glances when they think no one is looking.

When he sighs Sha’re’s name, he sees envy in Amaunet's eyes.

They say nothing of the host survives, but Daniel knows better. He wonders what goes on inside her head.

She keeps him in a gilded cage, apparently her favorite secret. He has free rein of the villa. He has servants. He has luxurious meals whenever he asks, and sometimes even when he doesn’t. He has too many richly decorated clothes in fine linen and silk, all in colors reserved for royalty. The jaffa do their best to ignore him, unless he’s in their way; then they take hours gently attempting to remove him. (He’d saved a few slaves from beatings that way.) He has books and scrolls to his heart’s content; mostly propaganda, but some real history. The best artisan Amaunet could find has a go at reproducing Daniel’s glasses.

Apophis they speak of only in soft tones, straining not to be overheard. And that they do only rarely.

Amaunet is desperate for Daniel to love it.

“My precious,” she croons, stroking his face. (My darling, my treasure, mine mine mine.) “Is it not everything the gods could wish?”

He doesn’t contradict her. Not out of fear – the worst she’s done is scratch him, once, and while he has no interest in being scratched again it wasn’t exactly traumatizing. But he doesn’t want to waste an evening when she’s in a good mood.

She hisses at the female servants when they get too close (jealous, thinking he has his way with them as Apophis does when she’s not around), but Daniel distracts her by kissing the hand on his cheek.

“It _is_ pretty nice.”

And she likes that he likes her little pleasure palace, and feeding each other sticky fruit, and sex on the veranda while the servants fan them (blessed to be allowed to look and damned if they try to touch). And she likes when he acknowledges that she’s the one taking him in – she, Amaunet, victorious and greedy and jealous, so jealous of her host.

They say nothing of the host survives, but sometimes, in the cool confines of the bedroom, tears land on Daniel’s face and he eats them, like an offering to the great specter of longing in those eyes – the longing, free of avarice and hatefulness, is, like the tears, not Amaunet’s.

Sometimes in the night she’ll press against him and sigh, “Dan’yel.” Then she’ll grip his arm and squeeze, shocked at her freedom.

He’ll look into her eyes - _her_ eyes – and say “I love you” in Abydonian. She’ll open her mouth to answer and pause, jerk, rear up over him.

Before Amaunet can speak he’ll pull her down into his arms and thrust against her. Amaunet always seizes the opportunity – desperate for it, and, he thinks, not understanding why.

They say nothing of the host survives, but Daniel knows better.

He wonders what goes on inside her head.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened. When Sha're originally died I was, of course, devastated, but years later I was also frustrated by the could-have-beens. So there I was, all nostalgic and could-have-been-ish and puttering around with drawerfic, as you do, and then.... Well, I take that back. I was all nostalgic and puttering around etc, and also sleep deprived, but I wrote this whole thing in my mind at 7am, and immediately woke up and wrote it all down. I never remember all the scenes I write in my mind when I'm half asleep, so this is an Event. I guess it shows how persistent the idea was.
> 
> I even raced with a laptop battery last night trying to post it. I lost. Oh well. (Part of that race was scrambling to figure out how to spell Amanuet. Amonet. Amunet? Amaunet? Ahmanet? Mother fucker!)
> 
> When exactly does this diverge from canon? Uhhhhhh...
> 
> Also also, mood music for this (after the fact, when I was typing it up and desperately scrambling for a title), was What Kind of Man by Florence and the Machine. Which is where the title comes from. Titles are hard.


End file.
